“Like I said, sir, I’m a very good cook.” Gentle piped up. “I done it for all the ladies in the priory. And they never once complained, nor experienced the slightest sign of up—”
It was very good of Gentle. It let Malice finally open her mouth. Now Ari stood staring contortedly at the row of bright red pinpricks while turning his hand this way and that, she couldn’t help feeling she should have kept it shut though. She lifted her arms to protect herself, shrinking as far down on the hard ground as it was possible to shrink and hugging her head in the hope of somehow escaping the blow that was surely coming her way.
“Ari . . . Ari . . . No . . .”
The way Sin nearly flew off his feet was perhaps less impressive than the way he’d stepped in front of her, the movement like that of a sleekly prowling animal. He may have staggered several feet backwards as Ari collided with him, his recovery was instant. Even as the thought flashed, was this her chance to escape, Sin clasped the sword hilt at his hip. Straightening he yanked it from his belt.
“Corpses don’t fetch any gold. Kill him and we’ll get even less.” His voice, a low semi-feral growl, resonated at the base of her spine. He fumbled for the dagger hanging from his belt. “You know that better than me. Now, I’d say we’ve been here long enough. You . . .”
Dread careered along her veins instead of blood. Not for the first time she hoped he didn’t mean her.
“Yes. You, boy.”
He did. “Even if we’ve been saddled with a lot of fish-bellied, useless-guts I can’t sell, what’s attached to my belt? Get it.”
Right. Not something she was leaping up and down in what was left of Madam Faro’s shoes, waving her pantaloons, about. He, his belt, rather was not something she especially wished to acquaint herself with. Not now she took a proper look at him, at his powerful yet slim-hipped, long-legged, figure clad, like the others, in a mixture of dark, indistinguishable brown, soft leather boots and breeches, that were somehow perfectly distinguishable because of it. A leather tunic of a lighter colour clung to his perfect shoulders and chest, his wrists encased in leather bands.
But if she didn’t . . . There was no didn’t. As it was she was one of the few sitting here with a face. Imagine if they discovered she’d a woman’s body to go with it? She didn’t want to. Already the threat of being auctioned was terrifying enough. But she did need to get out of here. This was her chance. She just must hope Gentle would keep her mouth shut. She would, wouldn’t she? Or she would never have said what she had a second ago.
Despite her aching legs, she scrambled to her feet. He stood a few feet away with his back to her and she reached her bound hands out gingerly. The bag was tied on his right hip. Sort of anyway. Quite tightly too she saw the second she grasped it, so she’d to tug it. In fact she’d to yank it. Even then it didn’t budge.
Was that why he turned his head and his eyes, ice-cold blue slits, looked down into hers? At least she assumed they were cold. It was hard to tell with that shining helmet covering his face, which was why she forced the contours of her own into a smile. A parody of one. She lowered her gaze, gave a final tug, pulled it loose. Actually the bag was quite heavy. It clinked too. Think of the shoes she could buy with this. Any number of pairs actually. In fact the whole shop. Think of the Chinese silk fans too.
“Give it to Maggot-face.”
Did he know what she was thinking? That this would keep her in shoes for the rest of her life? Damn, but it was tempting. How many times had she longed for such a thing? She raised her chin in time to catch another ice-cool, sideways glance.
“Now.”
The sheer pity of it tore her heart. Yet, what could she do? The power he exuded standing there wasn’t something she wished to meddle with. And not just the power, she was almost ashamed to admit, the way her blood tingled in that second. Her gaze seemed riveted by his waist. As for his buttocks in those leather trousers—if she had looked at these first would she have tugged the bag? Absurdly she didn’t know, only that the awareness of his body, inches from her own, of the smell of the sea that clung to him, filled her with a powerful longing. Actually, would being pillaged be so bad, if this was who she was pillaged by? If . . .
“Give me that.”
Her dreams of if were interrupted by Ari snatching the bag from her. “All right, Pot-licker, what’s your orders?”
Surprising when he and Sin had argued a second ago that Ari should address him affectionately, but perhaps that was a good thing when she had been so easily distracted by worldly things and her goal was to get to that patch of scorched earth.
After all, she wasn’t here to admire anyone’s buttocks, no matter how sleek. Their waist and tanned biceps either. To wonder whether he actually did lick pots—she had read in that book that the Vikings used very odd nicknames.
As for the bag of gold, a fat lot of good that would do her if she got her throat slit for trying to run away with it. She just had never been in a situation where she’d had to put money against a man.
“Firstly you, yes you . . . get back over there. Go on.”
Yes. This was her chance to fade into the background.
“Secondly.”
She paused, hovering on one foot. At least, she hoped it was.
“And this isn’t an order, it’s advice, whoever told these women—you women—to disfigure yourselves, had better own up now.”
Her scalp froze. Of course it wasn’t her. But she wouldn’t be the least surprised if she didn’t get the blame. Especially now if Gentle opened her mouth. Malice dropped onto her elbows and knees, averted her gaze, drew the scent of the earth up into her lungs.
“Because that woman will be coming with me.”
She tried to smother the shiver of apprehension that stole like the roiling mist over her whole body. His voice only rose a notch for silence to fall?
“She owns up and those with damaged faces can go free.”
Go free? She wanted to batter her head off the ground. Of course, that was assuming Mother Bede was going to own up. To think if she had cut off her nose she would be free to go, though. To wander about here and find her way back to Cyril’s bedroom, where of course, her nose would be intact. Why had she been so vain and silly about it?
“What’s wrong, ladies? Did the knife steal your tongues as well as your noses? Don’t make me choose, because believe me, I will.”
Choose? His footsteps prowled closer, so the toes of his brown leather boots were just beneath her nose. Steel clinked as he . . . what? Edged off his helmet with a deep sigh?
“I need a bed slave.”
As she stared at the blackened blades of grass inches beneath her nose, Malice did her best to stop her jaw from dropping but it did it anyway. A bed slave? Had she ever heard of such a thing? No, although she had a fairly good idea what it entailed. How shocking was that? Worse than anything Strictly had ever done. Fortunately it would not be her.
Beside her, Gentle lumbered to her feet. “Sir—”
“Yes. I know. You’re a cook—”
“Yes, I am a cook—”
“Who cooks for all the good sisters here. Well, that’s good to know but I don’t need a cook.”
“I’m the cook who gave that order.”
Malice edged her head around. Then she edged it back. How dreadful to be so desperate. Last night she’d been desperate too, in all kinds of ways. But to go telling a man you’d done something you hadn’t, in order to be his bed slave . . . well . . . she had never been that desperate where a man was concerned, had she?
Of course the poor soul had a face only a mother could love. And maybe not at that. This was certainly proving interesting. What was Sin going to say to that? Would he be as good as his word?
“You? Gave that order?”
“Gentle . . .”
Finally Mother Bede spoke, in a honeyed tone too. Was she going to offer herself instead? It hardly mattered, so long as it wasn’t Malice herself.
“Gentle, you cannot take the blame. It is a sin to lie.”
“Oh I’m not lying, Holy Mother. You are.”
What? What was this man? Handsome? That women were queuing to get into bed with him? She lifted her head, squinting through the mist.
Mother of God. Handsome? Handsome didn’t begin to cover it. Her gaze widened and her mouth dropped open. Cyril was handsome but he didn’t have this man’s raw appeal, the air of confidence and authority that surrounded him.
Take me. Anything me. Her mind shamefully whispered, a pound of waves seeming to crash over her senses at the sight of his perfectly dazzling figure picking his way among them, the fine drizzle of rain dampening the soft strands of his gilt, windswept hair, between which his silvery-blue eyes glinted, the leather scabbard belt criss-crossing his chest. Not that the leather scabbard belt criss-crossing his chest was of any significance to her, except that it clung to his sculpted chest and his sculpted chest was something she wanted to cling to too in that second.
Shock choked her body. For goodness sake, what was wrong with her? How could she regret chopping her hair, regret cutting her gown to shreds so she sat here in her drawers—her best ones—but even so, just look at them, torn, tattered and muddy?
These silvery blue eyes, that sensuous mouth were what was wrong with her. And plainly it was wrong with all the other women here whose hands were raised who were saying it was me. I did it.
A bed slave? A bed slave with pleasure. And how the blazes could she be a bed slave? She didn’t know the first thing about it. No. But she could learn.
“For Odin’s sake, Sin, put the helmet back on.” Ari gave a chuckle. “What would Snotra say?”
“Nothing, if she knows what’s good for her.”
Snotra? Who was Snotra? Someone who wanted a marriage wrecked in which case she would be very obliging? At no charge either. Sometimes there were services you gave for free. This was one of these times. How could she have been so stupid as to pretend to be a boy?
Because she didn’t belong here. Had she forgotten that? Well? That little patch of scorched earth right there in front of the smoking wood of what was once a door, was where she belonged. A million miles and as many stars away from here.
Sin’s boot toed the turf. “But, do you know something? I can’t stand arguments, so put them both on the Raven.”
“What did I say to you, Drottin?” Maggot–face rubbed his weasely, doubtless festering palms together, the least of her troubles now her gaze was riveted on that spot. “About big women?”
“I don’t trust you, Haddon. You’ve sold us short with this contingent. But my new household needs a cook, a farmer, and of course, women. The rest can go to Jorvik.”
Hell in other words? Not that she was going there. Now they finally showed every sign of heading back to the river, she knew where she was going. Her eyes were on it right now.
“The ones worth selling that is. Load the boat.”
“Of course, Drottin. And a pleasure it has been doing business with so mighty a War-Lord as your good self, yet again. I said to my wife only yesterday these Norse War-Lords, these Norse Drottins, that is-”
“Your pleasure because I’d sooner eat cow shit than do it again.”
How revolting. Still, thank God, the mighty Drottin’s back was finally turned. All she had to do was wait. She could run, couldn’t she? Even in these shoes. Now was her chance. Maybe her only one, to ignore what dried her throat and coated her palms, by tearing forward.
“Ulric. Foera inn, I mean, bring the woman on the end.”
The woman on the end? She glanced to her left. There wasn’t anybody. Then she glanced to her right. Then she didn’t glance anywhere at all because then she was yanked to her fancy Madame Faro shod feet.
Chapter 4
“Sin, are you out of your helmet? Look at our hands. Mine. Ulric’s.”
Sinarr Gudrunsson fought a grimace as he shifted the struggling weight on his shoulder. What was it he’d said about being unable to stand arguments? If Ari asked him that question about his helmet again, or this damnable wench tried landing her foot anywhere near his balls—her knee in his chest either—his inability would be ancient history.
His Odin-damned hearth goddess wasn’t the only one who needed to know what was good for her. This hag he’d yanked from a fate worse than death, needed to show some respect, know what he’d done deserved applause. Not bite his men half to death.
The Raven pitched, rocking wildly beneath Ari’s weight as he sprung on board. “And not just Ulric. Potlicker, she’s a witch.”
“So?”
For the first time that stupid nickname from his childhood riled.
“You’ve got yourself a woman. Why do you want her?”
“Because.”
Staggering slightly as the deck lurched, he doggedly dumped her down in the stern in a tangle of sackcloth and whatever the hell those white things were that showed off her legs. While Saxon women were different from Viking women, he’d still never known Saxon women to wear anything like that. Nuns especially. Blazing fire-ships, did she have pink ribbons lacing the edges? And she’d tried to pass herself off as a boy? She parted her lips, pink to match the ribbons.
“It’s manners not to stare.”
“That depends on what I’m staring at. Right now I’ve no idea.”
He didn’t, although he skimmed his gaze over her just the same. Maybe the ribbons were pretty. She was as ugly as a Lapphund, as ugly as Hel. Teeth too large for those unholy lips. And she’d obviously totally annoyed her holy sisters for them to hack her hair like this. Eyes—all right, the eyes might have been nice. As colours went, turquoise was all right, he supposed, just not when they were indignantly set beneath hideously finely winged beetle-black brows, in skin so damned and disgustingly pale. He wasn’t wrong about what he was looking at. He honestly had no idea. As for her voice, he’d never heard the whining likes, every word, every syllable an almost incomprehensible assault on his eardrums? Anglo-Dane as he’d never heard it. It was what made him tilt his jaw ferociously in the hope of impressing upon her the need to shut up.
“Anyway, who told you to talk?”
“Well, that’s as maybe. I’m going to talk all I like. In fact I’m going to talk non-stop till you let me off this tub. I’m going to talk about everything. I’m going to recite the alphabet backwards Z. Y. X. And forwards. A.B.C.D.”
He’d see about that. He turned to Ari. “Tell the men to hoist the sail. Gunnar can take the cargo to Jorvik.”
“L. M. N. O.”
At least he hoped he was going to see about that. “Tell him that’s the last time we use Haddon. That’s twice now he’s sold us short.”
As if to bolster his certainty, at least about that much, a gull screeched close overhead. The sound wasn’t just burnt into his blood, the sound thrilled his blood. He might wish it wasn’t, but it wasn’t Haddon’s fault the women had disfigured themselves, any more than the morning mist around the ship’s hull was so thick Sin could barely see through it. At least Haddon knew his place, addressed him as the War-Lord he was, unlike this woman, who he wished to Odin would be quiet. Uneasiness flickered in the pit of his gut and he hated being a captive to that fact.
It all started when Snotra came back into his life two months ago. It should have been the answer to his prayers. Instead uneasiness had been a constant fist in his belly. This raid clenched it tighter because the only word for this raid was disaster. The worst of his career although he wasn’t exactly going to admit to it, any more than he was going to admit to that odd moment there when he lifted this harridan. The one where the waves and the shingle seemed to recede.
“S. T. U.”
Tearing his gaze from their wetness, he nodded at Ari. “Before you say any more, I’ve the two redheads, the blond, the sister, and the fat one. Believe me, this one’s ballast.”
“Then throw her over the side now, Potlicker. We can do without the extra weight.”
He smiled at the nick-name, Ari had called him since the day they’d met. They were boys then and Sin had been a skinny, hungry one Ari was convinced licked pots clean.
“Weight?” She sat there glaring. “Hark at who should be the first to sacrifice themselves in that case then.”
Had he just heard that? Ari obviously did and Ari was touchy about the subject. Sin didn’t want him going about with a petted lip for the remainder of the voyage. Hack off her hair? The sisters should have cut off her tongue. Maybe they’d tried and rabies was what they had to show for it? Maybe over the side was the best place for her?
Put her on The Reindeer and send her to Jorvik? Dwarves’ dwellings, pity the person buying her.
He took a step forward and she jerked up her chin facing him with eyes like slits. “I’d be thankful if you’d stop talking about me as if I wasn’t here.”
THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN Page 5
